


Part One: The Beginning of the End

by DrPeppr_0



Category: None - Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29237418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrPeppr_0/pseuds/DrPeppr_0
Summary: An original work of mine. This is my first, so please be nice in the comments!Part One of the first plot arc, basically the start of it all. I hope y’all enjoy it!“Reality had stopped for a moment. A fleeting thought that there was a time before this that he was alive, but no evidence supported this claim, this feeling, this primal instinct. All senses and sensation were experienced through a haze in those moments. Time was irrelevant. Then, he heard whispers. Mentions of fever, of money, and a name. Jumbled voices quieting as well as growing clearer as he drifted towards consciousness.”





	Part One: The Beginning of the End

Well, Now, Look What They Did To Me  
Reality had stopped for a moment. A fleeting thought that there was a time before this that he was alive, but no evidence supported this claim, this feeling, this primal instinct. All senses and sensation were experienced through a haze in those moments. Time was irrelevant. Then, he heard whispers. Mentions of fever, of money, and a name. Jumbled voices quieting as well as growing clearer as he drifted towards consciousness.  
Then he felt pain. The headache, a dull throb. His mind was stuffed with wet cotton, it seemed. His throat was rough and sore, as if made of sandpaper. A warm, burning sensation lingered, but from what he did not know. He felt weak, his limbs too incapable, his frame too slight.  
As the low murmurs of the people around him persisted, he worked towards opening his eyes. It was like waking from a long sleep. Blurred vision cleared, bringing to notice an odd setting as well as odd cast. He turned his head to one side on the pillow. A girl of medium build sat inquisitively on a chair near another person’s bed, watching him. The white sheets were clean and crisp, laid tenderly over them. A moment of recognition occurred then. He didn’t know how, or why, but he knew the name of that person. Alan, was it? Wait, what was he thinking? The name was forgotten, buried somewhere, kept out of reach in his own mind. He knew that person had a name. He knew he used to know the name, seconds ago. What was his own name? He didn’t know. But he would find out himself, he was sure.  
He sat up quickly, only to be overcome by nausea and headache. He put a hand to the source of the pain— and felt bandage and cloth wrapped ever-so-delicately around the area.  
He hadn’t noticed the whispering had stopped until then. Looking back at him was an odd cast, indeed. They introduced themselves each to him, some more friendly than others.  
A moderately tall, willowy man introduced himself as James. James’ dark, unruly hair was a mess of curls and little wispy tufts that stuck out like spikes. Purple eyes with small pupils held dread, pain, and lies. The look of an inexperienced liar. Skin seeped of all color was James’ defining physical feature, in his opinion. Next to the unnaturally sharp fingernails. He wondered what was wrong with James. It had to be magic. A payment? A curse? After all, all magic comes at a price— The strange sense of memory reappeared, and James let out a small gasp of pain. The feeling of wistful remembrance was, again, buried, and he couldn’t find why.  
James introduced a man called Martin Thatcher. Several originally blond, straw-like hairs of Martin’s had become grey with time, and when they shook hands it was taken gingerly, shaken shortly, and without much grip to it. Martin seemed to be a bit uncomfortable around James, he noticed, as well. He wondered why that was so.  
He met Gamma, her thick, chestnut-colored hair framing a face half-metal patchwork, half freckled mischief. A dark green eye narrowed at him in a strange combination of smugness and fascination. She may have murmured something about a playing field, but he couldn’t exactly catch the details. He took her right hand— which happened to be part of what seemed to be a robotic prosthetic of some sort— and shook it gently. She seemed to want to have a go at breaking his fingers.  
He learned the names of Kyla and Zak, and that they were siblings. Zak was the oldest, apparently. Around the others, he noticed, Zak was bubbly and sociable around others, but to him he was cold. They didn’t shake hands. Kyla, on the other hand, seemed eager to meet and befriend him.  
Before him stood five people, all with a distinct persona. He learned that the person lying in the bed near his was called Alan. James. Martin. Gamma, although he figured that was probably a nickname. Zak. Kyla. And Alan. They all had names. What would his name be? Did he already have one or would he have to come up with it? Questions soared around, each written on crisp white paper with the smoothest, darkest ink and quill. He saw these swirling about him in the room, carried by invisible wind.  
He cleared his burning throat and asked to the people standing around him, “What is my name?” The act of speaking was so familiar, yet so alien, to him. How may you do something you can’t remember doing, flawlessly?  
For a moment they exchanged a silent glance at each other, having a noiseless argument with purely their eyes. It would’ve been quite entertaining to watch, had he been less confused. James seemed to decide the final verdict.  
“Martin, if you’d mind taking Al— sorry, our currently nameless friend— out to the garden as we discuss things?” He said this slowly, the words forming themselves with great care.  
Thatcher’s expansive garden seemed to be a celebration of nature, with vines curling themselves about arches, flowery bushes blooming in all shades and hues imaginable, and winding paths shaded by large oak trees. Martin seemed proud of a small, sunlit patch near the edge.  
“Plants I used to grow in my old alchemy days. Some of these are years old. Taken from another land entirely.” He said the lines as if reciting them from a script. He may show all of his visitors these plants. The next minutes there passed in silence, while he entertained himself with watching metaphors and words come to life before his eyes. Martin, meanwhile, tended to his plants with the air of a lover. He… really liked his garden. “This tree here,” Martin rambled on, “was grown from seeds I got at Mt. Carew. Took quite a climb, and you know what? I’ll tell you all about it…”  
~~~  
“Well, James, what do you think we should call him?” Samantha questioned, crossing her arms with a judgemental demeanor.  
“It’s less risky if we give him something that doesn’t link as much to his past. This will conjure up memories of himself we’d rather not him have at the moment. But something that has nothing to do with him will feel fundamentally wrong, and make him want to know what’s up… and I can’t stop him if he’s determined enough. That’d be too... mentally exhausting. The same goes for his past and things. We have to tell him half-truths. Lies will feel wrong, and absolute truth may have him led to more, which we do not want.”  
“So, we need a name he has that not many people call him by?” Zak asked.  
“Exactly!”  
“Maybe we could try his last name.” Kyla suggested eagerly.  
“Yeah. Trouble is, I don’t know it.”  
“Well, can’t you just look into Alistair’s memories and find out?”  
“It doesn’t work that way; I can’t just read his mind!”  
“I know it.” Kyla paused, then elaborated: “it’s Moore. I saw it on a wall hanging in his study.”  
“Alright. We have ourselves a name.”  
~~~  
“Will you be alright with being called ‘Moore?’ We know it was your last name,” Kyla suggested gently to him. The offer was taken gratefully. Saying it, feeling the vocal cords work to make that particular sound, felt right. At least, more “right” than any name he could choose for himself.  
“Moore.” Even through the day, he whispered it softly, under his breath. Ignoring the aching head and burning throat and clinging to something that felt normal to him. Moore. That was his name, or, nickname, until it came upon the time I recount his experiences now. But that’s not important at the moment. I’ll continue telling you of who they called “Moore.”

Alan’s Very Entertaining Reaction  
They stood around Alan’s bed as he worked his way to consciousness. Moore had heard from James that Alan had a nasty fever after they rescued him. He was disoriented and confused for hours after they got out of that place. What “that place” was wasn’t made clear to Moore, neither was what Alan was rescued from. Questions sailed around in his head, on a raging black sea of ink, yet they were never brought to light by him. Moore, like me, chose to find things out for himself. He would watch and listen for clues, then see how he could acquire more information. And, indirectly, more power. Knowledge is power, and power is— what was he thinking? The strange feeling was back. Well, if he forgot it, it must not be that important.  
Moore drifted from the others to study the many rooms in the house. It was an estate, a manor, owned by Martin Thatcher, passed down through generations. They were in a “hospital” room of sorts, with infirmary-like cots or beds lining one of the walls. That setup seemed temporary, though. Shelves of brightly-colored fluids, flat and bubbling, thick and thin, transparent, cloudy, opaque, and everywhere in between, lined the other wall. The shelves were built of dark wood, their glaze taking on an almost purple sheen in the lighting. The larger bottles, glassware, and equipment was held in cabinets behind glass. Daylight streamed in through a glass section of the angled roof, the ceiling beams and bars casting shadows onto the hardwood floor. On the bed-side wall, tall windows with towering silk curtains gave views of the front landscaping of the estate.  
Out the door there was the entrance room. A decorative blanket of sorts hung on the wall. It appeared to be a quilt. The front door was of fine, expensive wood, painted a deep maroon to accent the earthy browns and creamy tones of the rest of the house. A wall-mounted coat rack held various coats of sorts. A deep black traveling cloak, its fabric thick and warm, hung by the hood. A denim jacket decorated with various pins and badges, its pockets littered with stripped wire coverings and other such things, hung by the collar, alongside… one that sparked that feeling of recognition again. It was a deep, earthy brown. The jacket had been burned in some places. Tiny holes created by sparks or hot ash spewing from a campfire. Moore pictured burning pinewood, the crackles filling his ears, taking him to another place entirely. But he was transported nowhere. Brought to memories that were out of reach. They were there, but at the same time miles away. What exactly was going on? He’d find by his own power what happened. From there, perhaps he could deduce the present.  
Moore continued to explore the estate.  
~~~  
“Alan, wake up.” Zak whispered urgently. “We have a lot to explain.”  
Sounds turned to words, words to phrases, and phrases to meaning. Zak wanted Alan to wake up. So, he must open his eyes. The thoughts became actions and he urged them open, to be greeted by Kyla, Zak, Samantha, and two other people he didn’t know. This was the first time he had seen them all while feeling completely awake and not weighted down by fever, injury, or the sensory overload that was reality for a time. It was refreshing, to no longer be trapped in another person’s world. It was relieving to no longer be floating in a dream of his own.  
“Are you feeling okay? Okay. This is James. This is Martin. They’re helping us out, don’t worry. James is with Gamma and Martin is an old buddy of James’. We’ve got a lot to discuss before Moore comes back into the room.” Kyla said quickly, with the same air of urgency Zak had had.  
“Wait a second, who’s ‘Moore’?” He asked, sitting up in the bed. “Wait a minute… is that the surname of—”  
“We’ll explain everything, Alan. Don’t you worry.” James said, preparing to tell the story of how he got dragged into this whole ordeal via Samantha. He then proceeded to tell the story of how he got dragged into this whole ordeal via Samantha. “I really don’t understand why you had to involve me in that matter. You didn’t even need my expertise or lesson.”  
“Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Live in the moment, because you can’t change the past!” Samantha stated, with an air of reverence and utmost importance. James’ face of confusion was priceless, in Alan’s opinion. Samantha was probably the least likely person to be spouting inspirational quotes. A pause, then “nevermind with the sentimental nonsense, we’ve got explaining to do. Who wants to go first? No-one? Alright, then, I’ll just do it myself.”  
~~~  
The house was old, but it seemed not one speck of dust could evade the Thatcher household’s wrath. Wait. That was an odd metaphor. “Not one speck of dust could escape the Thatchers’ cleaning.” That’s not even a metaphor. Never mind, then. Let’s just say that the house was cleaner than you’d expect.  
The entrance room had three different rooms adjacent to it. To the right was a door leading to the dining room, which was adjacent to the kitchen. To the left was the door of the infirmary-style room, where Martin used to also practice alchemy. According to him, he taught James everything he knows about both alchemy and general potion-making. He never taught him that magic never came without a price. James had learned that from experience. I did, as well. “Moore” hadn’t, yet.

Moore Is Foolish Yet Again  
So, I suppose I’ll relay to you the time he met my “friend”. Martin Thatcher had enough spare beds for everyone staying at his place for the night, yet Moore stayed awake. In the late hours of the day, Mrs. Thatcher had come home from a weekend in town with her friends, bringing large shopping bags of clothes and shoes. Who needs so many shoes? Who knows. Mrs. Thatcher, whose first name was Sherri, had retreated with Martin to their room on the second floor, most likely for the night. Moore had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, lost in swirling thought, trying to find a lead. Something, anything would help him find truth, yet he found nothing.  
He could ask those around him in the morning, those who called themselves his friends. But how could he trust them, and what they say? The only true conclusions you may come to are those without the input of others’ opinions. After all, it’s a world where you kill or be killed. It’s a world where you have to work alone, a world where you’ll only be safe when you destroy those that oppose you, or come even close to challenging you.  
With James around, these thoughts would be forgotten and leave only feelings of a time where everything was figured out. A time where he knew what exactly he was and what he did. Now, those thoughts ran freely, or, at least, much more freely than before. His mind was clearer, his senses sharper. But an almost claustrophobic feeling, a feeling of being trapped or repressed, surrounded his chest. When this mindset came to light, he felt both better and worse. Moore felt what I hadn’t in a long time. And, honestly, I don’t know what it is. It could be the Power Of Friendship™, for the sake of the Three Lords, or even a mental breakdown of sorts. I’ll leave it up to interpretation, my friends. But it felt like… true freedom. When these thoughts came about, a shadow loomed above, enveloping the mind.  
But what exactly it was doesn’t matter as much as what it caused to happen. Moore, with his abstract thoughts becoming increasingly more tangible and solid around him, got up to find a quiet little corner to think better. That always helped me, and so it was only logical it would help him, as well. The thoughts followed him, taking the forms of vivid shapes and puffs of colored smoke. Sparks and bubbles, fire and mist. Moore— naive little fellow— tried to touch one of these visions. (I believe it may have represented “light.”) Touch, ladies and gentlemen. Now, my friends, you all may not be familiar with what happens if you try to touch a vision like that. In short, it summons your illusion, a singular entity that does as you please… of course, as long as it gets to have “fun.” I think. Not entirely sure if I’m explaining the correct something, I’ve had a lot of coffee and not a lot of sleep. My friends, I should probably get to what happened. I don’t apologize for any inconvenience, as that was your fault for reading this. Stop complaining, you soggy blueberry waffle. What was I saying again? Never mind. Back to Moore.  
Moore, now in the relatively clean attic of the estate, watched in horrified fascination as his thoughts grew together into a small, dark figure. Wispy tendrils of smoke, lit by a hanging light in the attic, gathered into a single mass, in the form of a person. It had a thin, starved appearance, with a ragged cloak over its shoulders. Its wide, milky eyes gleamed. Its mouth was split open in an insane grin, revealing sharp, perfectly white teeth. The creature, shadow, figure— whatever it was— spoke to him, in a soft, low tone.  
“What happened?”  
No word was said aloud, and it was as if it had simply jutted into Moore’s stream of thought. An overwhelming feeling of recognition overtook him. It gripped his chest, making it hard to breathe. Nostalgia… but perhaps not the wistful, hopeful kind. It was different. Commanding. Laced with fear. This sensation was suppressed within moments, and Moore heard gasps of pain from downstairs. He listened as a commotion seemed to be building up down there. The feeling was out of mind already. Moore turned back to the shadowy figure. “I… I feel like I know you,” he said in a hushed voice. He didn’t want to attract attention by making too much noise.  
“Of course you know me, you deep-fried corn-on-a-stick. What’s wrong with you? What happened? That’s what I’m asking.”  
“Deep-fried corn-on-a-stick? Creative insul—”  
“Thank you.”  
Moore was taken aback by this interruption. It wasn’t normal, like in a conversation. The… thing… whatever it was… it took hold of his thoughts and blocked out those that opposed its message. This was censoring, this was control, whatever this thing was—  
“Oh, honestly, I’d rather you call me by my name.”  
“You… you can read my thoughts?”  
Not really. Just the basic idea of them. But that doesn’t matter. Now, this is the part where you ask for my name.  
“What’s your name, then?”  
Glad you asked. It’s Lyer. L-y-e-r.  
“You mean ‘liar?’”  
“No, you salted popsicle stick. Lyer. When I say something, I mean it. Although... I am capable of lying. I’m not exactly what you’d call a beacon of truth, to be perfectly honest...”  
“Okay. Lyer, then. What… what do you want from me?”  
“Oh, well, well, well, it’s been a long time since I’ve been the one to ask that question, is it not? Usually it’s the other way around. Let’s get to work, then, shall we? Tell me, friend, what do they call you by now?”  
“Moore. They say it was— or is, I guess— my surname. I thought you could find out without asking.”  
“That’s not how it works, Moore. I only know about you what you tell me or what I read when you’re weaker. If you’re at the end of your rope, emotions-wise, then it’s quite easy to manipulate thoughts, even if you haven’t given me permission. You’re unusually… stable right now. So, what’s wrong with you?”  
“Manipulate thoughts?” Moore repeated, his voice lined with fear. “What do you mean by tha—”  
“Moore, when I say something, I mean it. Yes, I can do that. And much more easily if you would just let me again, then I could do anything you wish. Anything. Just sign the contract again!”  
“Again? I’ve done it before?”  
“Yes, you unnecessary movie sequel! I just— ah. I know what’s wrong. That’s why it’s so much harder to… that makes much more sense...”  
“What? What does?” Moore felt his voice rising in volume, and heard footsteps from below.  
“Moore? What’s going on up there?” Moore recognized that voice, the care put into each word, now hastened and rushed by alarm. It belonged to James. If he heard that entire conversation he just had— he’d have to answer to a lot of questions from the others. Moore panicked, and shouted to the floor below, “Lyer!” That was what went on up there, after all. Moore looked around the attic, to see Lyer flipping through one of the Thatcher family photo albums, sitting casually in a velvet chair. The albums were old, dust concealing the gold trim of the covers— what was he doing? Oh, right. James. The situation at hand.  
What to do, what to do, what to do? James called, “I’m heading up the ladder!” Moore heard the creaking of the wooden rungs. James threw the hatch of the attic open, to join the piles of aged quilts, forgotten family heirlooms, and mismatched furniture. Moore noticed how James didn’t pay any notice to Lyer, who was just behind him, grinning like a madman. It was as if Lyer wasn’t even there to him. Was he? Who knows.  
“Ali— sorry, I mean Moore— What’s troubling you? You seem to have been… conversing with yourself in here. I came up here to clear some things up for you,” James said quietly, his eyes gentle but wary. Moore brightened at the possibility of his questions being answered. He began excitedly, “Yes, I’d appreciate your—”  
“What did I tell you earlier? We work alone, Moore. Don’t trust anyone else.”  
Moore ended mid-sentence, then picked up again. He cleared his throat, the burning sensation in it no longer lingering from earlier. “Sorry. I got cut off…. Yes, I’d appreciate your help.”  
“Alright then, Moore. I’ll explain all we know about your situation. But first, could you possibly explain to me... what did you mean by getting cut off? Nothing here could’ve... interrupted you.”  
“...I think I could tell you what I know.”  
“How about we get some rest beforehand, and then... exchange information over breakfast tomorrow?”  
“That sounds alright.”  
“Okay. Also… I beg of you, Moore— please stop trying to remember things. It puts strain on you, with your concussion, and on me. You see… I’m trying to keep your… mental health… in check…? Yeah. Just— please don’t. It hurts when you do that.” James left the attic, shutting the hatch on a very puzzled Moore. Eventually, he followed down the ladder, the stairs, the hall, and, finally, the room, to his bed, letting the fluffy white pillows claim him as one of their own.

The Breakfast Where Everything Falls Apart (It’s All Zak’s Fault)  
Lyer wasn’t there in the morning when Moore woke up. The whole night felt like some sort of bizarre dream, and only now had he returned to reality. True, he could perhaps explore worlds beyond that of grounded reality, free of limitations and pain. He could help people out of their misery, allowing them to take a break and indulge in pleasant distractions, before returning to reality. Call them visions, illusions, or even hallucinations, only he could see them. But, if he would just let Lyer take a bit of control, he could allow others to see them too. He could—  
What was he thinking again? Moore seemed to have spent the morning in almost a trance, getting ready for the day without any conscious thought whatsoever put into it. When he finally did snap back to the present, he found himself in clean clothes, his hair combed through and tamed, brushing his teeth before a framed mirror. The cloth wrapping around his head was gone, a small, sealed-over scab the only marking that it was there.  
Moore took a moment to study his appearance, as he didn’t get a chance to anytime earlier. Soft auburn hair, hanging slightly above his shoulders, framed a face marked with worry. His eyes were cloudy, and it was hard to make out their color or details. Why, he didn’t know. For some odd reason, the way the features were arranged would cause any smile of his to look... forced. Insincere. Almost as if emotion had been an afterthought of his. But nevermind. He had important things to do.  
When Moore opened the door to the dining room, he was the first there. Eight seats around a long table. The tiled floor complimented the well-built table, of which Moore could only see the legs. A silky, flowing cloth, a brilliant shade of vermillion, covered the surface of the table. A high ceiling held hanging lights, but they were dim compared to the sunlight streaming through windows that stretched from floor to the ceiling.  
Empty plates. Empty glasses. Empty stomach. Empty mind. The word no longer held meaning. “Empty.” Everything was “empty,” it seemed. Wait— not really. Not anymore. The room was filling with people. The chairs were no longer empty. The air was filling with conversation, each voice filling floating bits of paper. Plates were being filled. Minds filled with new information.  
Moore took a seat at the long table, joining Martin, James, Kyla, and Zak. Alan and whoever went by the nickname “Gamma” hadn’t arrived in the room yet. “Gamma.” An interesting thing to be called by. Was it symbolic? Tied to a part of her life? Why did she insist so upon being called by it? Questions swirled around, circling the table. The thoughts were tangible, although taking abstract forms and symbols. Moore recoiled from them in the chair. He ought not to touch them again, not until he knew what Lyer was. Not until he was more prepared.  
Breakfast had been prepared in the kitchens by the Thatchers’ maid, Ms. Connoli. The table was now full, except for one seat. Thatcher sat at the head of the table, with Moore on his right. On his left was James. On James’ side sat Zak and Alan. On Moore’s side sat Kyla and Gamma. The empty seat, across from Martin, would be his wife, Sherri.  
“Oh, she’s just having coffee and breakfast with her friends. She does it every Friday morning. Nothing to be alarmed about,” Martin had said, absentmindedly twirling his fork in the air. Syrup dripped from the slice of pancake on the fork, but he didn’t seem to notice.  
James gave a hint of a smile. “She’s probably avoiding us.”  
“Mate, there’s no doubt she’s avoiding us. Hey, Thatcher, did she leave earlier than normal today?” Questioned Gamma, anticipation in her eye.  
“Actually… yes. Yes, she did.”  
“I knew it! She’d have to be mad to stick around with us.” She glanced at the siblings and Alan. “I mean, you three might be okay, but between James, Moore and I— we’re quite a group. Where was I going with this? I didn’t know where I was going with this…” The words formed themselves with haste, without much thought or filter at all.  
“Okay, there, Saman— sorry, Gamma—”  
“Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome— We have things to discuss as you guys… eat your pancakes. Moore said—”  
“Yeah, James— why aren’t you having breakfast?” Kyla asked innocently.  
James pushed the empty plate away, giving a resentful look in Martin’s direction. He pulled his coffee closer, almost protectively. “Let’s just say… I don’t need it anymore. And, everybody, please don’t interrupt again when we have such an important matter at hand. You see, Moore had said that he could tell us a bit of what’s going on for him, and in exchange we could explain some things, too. Now, should we go for transparency, or play it safe?”  
Everyone took a moment to finish their bites. Alan had topped his pancakes with strawberry jam. Zak simply melted butter onto his stack. Kyla had arranged an assortment of fresh berries, fruits, and nuts on her plate. It seemed to be only a cosmetic choice, as she didn’t touch any of the display. Martin drowned his in sugary syrup. Gamma— who may have been named Samantha or something similar, like James was saying— was instead having an omelette, filled with peppers, cheese, and even spinach.  
“I say we go for transparency,” said Kyla. “He ought to know what’s happening and what happened.”  
“He doesn’t deserve that.” Zak retorted, pointing at Kyla. “He doesn’t deserve it, not after all he’s done—”  
What did Moore do? Was the memory hidden in the wispy tendrils of a time before the estate and Zak and Kyla, James, Samantha, Alan, Martin, Sherri, and Lyer? A time before a niggling feeling in his chest told him something was off? A time before he was kept from wondering what he was in that time before. Well, Lyer could tell him. But could he be trusted? Who knows. He just needed more information...  
“Well, James, from a theoretical perspective, which would be best?” Alan asked, stroking a healed scratch across his right wrist. It looked as if it were from some kind of clawed animal. He did it almost compulsively, with a feverish desperation. It was as if he wanted it gone, erased from his life. Back and forth, back and forth.  
“There are pros and cons. Moore will search for less with transparency, but we’ll teeter dangerously close… if we play it safe, the opposite will happen. But, if he searches on his own… I can’t stop him. I can’t. And we might be back to... square one. I think… transparency might be better, with the least net loss.” James spoke with a low voice, in a “code” only the others seemed to know, purposefully leaving out information that would lead Moore to understanding. Search for... what? Teeter close to what? What can’t James stop him from? What can he stop him from? What’s square one, in his case? It was all very cryptic. Questions swirled around, revealing themselves to him in a menagerie of dancing, bobbing, and weaving colored lights. But he wouldn’t touch them. Not yet. He could use them to help explain what was happening. Later, of course.

Behold, Lyer Interrupts  
“Moore?”  
“Hm?” Moore looked up from his plate, swallowing the bite.  
Everyone was watching him, studying him intently. It was his time. After this, in exchange, they would tell him things as well. Useful things. Moore couldn’t really understand how his encounter with the self-proclaimed Lyer would help anything, but that was what James seemed most worried about.  
This is where, in my opinion, Moore is at fault. Well, there are many places, honestly, but this is one of those places. You get what I mean, yes? He, then, thought that Lyer wasn’t very important. I laugh, looking back on it now. What foolish behavior of his! Although, technically, I’m saying that to myself… let’s just get back to what he did. Not me. Him. I was not responsible for the actions of this idiot you have to watch, as he prances about tempting Fate.  
What seemed an eternity of searching for words had passed. Moore was drowning, sinking in the sea that is How To English, to put it into more informal terms. He could not English. He just didn’t know how to start. Where to start? Water surged in through the door, forming a colossal wave that traversed the room filled with signs of wealth and grandeur.  
Then James cast out a lifeline. A question. “Can you start with the conversation you had with yourself?”  
The water evaporated within the moment Moore cleared his throat to begin. “It’s not myself I was talking with, I think. There was another person in the attic.”  
“Really?” James asked, worry creeping into his face. “Who was this person, exactly?”  
“They told me their name. Then said what I’m pretty sure was an unintended pun…”  
“Well, what was their name?”  
“They called themselves L—”  
The noise died in his throat, ending with a small choking sound. Lyer seemed to come out of nowhere, delicately laying a spidery hand on Moore’s shoulder. However gentle that action was, it still came off as sinister. With context, Moore was… for lack of a better word… “spooked.”  
The others were puzzled as to why Moore had suddenly turned in his chair, looking at thin air. Why he was visibly distressed. Why he later started talking to the air again. It was all very confusing.  
Where were we? Ah, yes, the others. Lyer. All that fun stuff.  
“Why, hello there, Moore.” Lyer began, his hands clasped tightly together in front of him. The surroundings were beginning to fade, the edges of reality becoming soft, fluffy, and pliable. His tone was of insincere friendliness, you know: talking through teeth, accompanied by the finest of fake smiles. A get the hint, from the look I’m giving you with my eyes, or I swear I will rip your skin off and wear it.  
So, a normal tone. People use it everyday.  
“You know how we agreed that you wouldn’t tell other people about me? Have you forgotten, you expired coffee creamer? Before this, not telling anyone was fine. It was fine!” Lyer’s voice cracked in a moment of hysteria. “Oh… You wanted to, but... I kept you on a short leash.”  
“Wha—?”  
“Stop. As you can see… I’ve figured out how to at least prevent you from saying too much. I still can’t control what is said, but… eh. Good enough, my friend.” A silence passed, and Lyer cocked his head to the side, the mad grin returning. “So… is there something you want to say?”  
“I… uh…”  
“That’s what I thought, my friend.”  
“Actually— uh… how are you talking? Not the thoughts thing… communication… thing?”  
“You’re repeating things, Moore. Let’s just say… hm… I’ve got plenty of tricks up my sleeve, but there’s a specific way things have to be done. Alright. I’ll check on you from time to time… and don’t tell them my name.” He suddenly became wary, giving nervous glances in the others’ direction. “Or anything about me they could use. Got it?”  
“U—Understood.”  
“...good.” And with that, Lyer dissipated into smoke.  
How could Moore find a loophole for the rules? He couldn’t say the name or anything the others could use to figure Lyer out… the latter was subjective, but the former wasn’t nearly as flexible… or was it? As long as he didn’t say the name itself…  
“Moore? Are you alright?” The voice was muffled, as if by a pillow. Then— The world had returned, sharp edges were back, and— I forgot to mention— Moore found himself surrounded by the others, except for Martin. Apparently he’d left to water his garden. He took a second to gather his surroundings, then said “yes, I’m quite well, thank you.”  
“What… happened? You were talking to nobody again.” Kyla said, worry in her eyes as well.  
“Oh, well, the person was back. They… don’t want me to say their name.”  
“Just the name, you can't say?” Zak questioned. “How oddly convenient! Really, it’s such a coincidence that the name is the very thing we need and the very thing you won’t tell us. Honestly, it’s—”  
“Oh, shut up, Zak. Let the man do what he wants.”  
“No, I’d rather not. You wanna know why?”  
“Oh, gosh golly gee, I’d be delighted for you to tell me, mate. But, really, I’d rather you just shut up.”  
“You can’t think of anything other than ‘shut up,’ huh? Pathetic.”  
“Mate, I can think of plenty of things, but I’d rather keep this family-friendly. But, if you really want it, here’s an example—”  
“Woah, woah, woah, guys, break it up! Calm down… We have important business to attend to, and you can all have a go at each other later.” Alan motioned for Zak and Samantha to sit back down after they had gotten out of their chairs. Zak returned to his normal activity of giving dirty looks to Moore. Why? Who knows. Moore didn’t know then. I know now. Let’s move along.  
“I might have a solution. Many pacts with what I think this person is are by very literal, and... inflexible terms.” James began, then took a sip of the bitter dark liquid in his mug. I never liked coffee much. I was more of a tea person, myself.  
“I really need to know their name. From there, we can figure out what might be going on.”  
Alan spoke up again, this time asking if Moore could spell it out. After all, the simplest problems can have the simplest solutions. James supported this, saying the spelling was important as well.  
He began, but the vocal cords tightened up, unable to make a sound. Moore shook his head, signifying failure.  
“Okay… new plan.” Alan turned to the others: Kyla and Samantha, on Moore’s side of the table. “Do you guys have a plan?”  
“I thought you were the one with the plans. Isn’t that your whole thing?” Samantha questioned.  
“Well, yes, Gamma, but—”  
“Oh, for the sake of us all, just... call me Samantha. There. I said it. We’re friends now. Samantha is the name friends use. ‘Gamma’ is what my… business... partners call me. Besides, you all were tripping up on it, and not knowing which one to use for some reason, even though I specified it… and resorted to threats one time, James...”  
“Okay, Samantha.” Zak said in mock cheerfulness.  
“Not you, mate. We’re not friends.”  
Glares were exchanged.  
“Do any of you guys have a plan?” Alan repeated.  
After a bit of thinking, Kyla’s face lit up with excitement. “Charades! I always loved that game!”  
“No, we’re not doing charades. We are kind-of, maybe, semi-responsible adults here! At least, some of us. Anyways... no.”  
“I agree with Sam. Is ‘Sam’ okay to call you by?” Asked Alan. (Amazing alliteration.)  
“It’s less formal, so, sure. Have a go at it, mate.”  
“Okay then. Let’s get back to what we were trying to accomplish. James says we need the name and spelling of whatever this thing is. Moore knows the name, right?”  
“Yes.”  
“Sorry for referring to you in the third person. The thing or person said not to utter the name, and you’re being prevented from saying it? Am I following here?”  
“Yeah.”  
“You can’t say it, can’t spell it, and we will not stoop down to the level of charades, for the dignity of everyone in this room, so what can we do? Hm. Give us clues. Is it a name a human may have?”  
No sound could be made at that moment, but a shake of the head sent the same message: no.  
“Is it… something you might name your dog?”  
“What the heck, Alan, we’re talking about a possibly malevolent spirit here,” James said, looking simultaneously irritated, confused, and struggling to hold back laughter.  
No. Nu-uh. Nada.  
“Okay. Is it an ordinary word? We’re not talking about spelling, we’re talking about how it’s pronounced.”  
Yes.  
“Okay! Great! We have a yes! That didn’t narrow it down much, but still… is it an adverb?”  
“What’s an adverb?” Someone asked. I don’t remember who, but it might have been Kyla.  
“Not important. Moore knows, right?”  
“Yeah.”  
“And… is the name an adverb?”  
No.  
“Huh. It seems only when the intention is to give information about this person, you can’t speak. Is that what you noticed, Moore?”  
“Yeah, I suppose.”  
“That’s quite useful information.”  
Zak got out of his seat again. “Do you see what I’m saying? How convenient, that he can’t say the stuff we need! Why can’t you all see past it?”  
“Don’t even start, you little—”  
“Guys, calm down! We can resolve this later.”  
“I’m with Peacemaker here. You. Me. Garden. After this, we—”  
“Fight?” Zak seemed eager at the opportunity.  
“No, mate. We debate. At least, then, you have a chance. Plus, I want an excuse to tell you all the reasons why I hate you.” Samantha smiled insincerely.  
“Oh, is that what you’re doing, now?”  
“Sure, that is. Do you have a problem with it?”  
“Zak, Samantha, out. Get out of the room. Now.” Reminder to beware the friend who barely ever gets angry, because when they finally do snap, they’re terrifying. Looking back, James’s glare of silent fury would make me run. Thank the Lords he wasn’t angry at me— I mean Moore. I’m not this idiotic, I promise you.  
Alan, Kyla and Moore watched as James dragged Samantha out the door by the collar of her button-down shirt. Her arms were crossed in defiance, feet dragging behind on the floor. Zak stayed behind, stubbornly seated at the table.  
“Get out of this room right now, or Samantha here is going to have to engineer another faceplate. You follow me?” James’ stare said it all. He was dead serious.  
Both troublemakers were out of the room, arguing upstairs within a moment. James took his seat across from Moore, taking another sip of coffee. “Hm. I’m just not myself without my morning cup of joe… So,” he began in a more cheerful tone, “now that we have the distractions out of the room… Alan, Moore, Kyla… we can all get to work. Alan, take the lead. I need to finish my coffee.”

Behold! Lyer Changes His Mind  
Alan cleared his throat. “Okay, we know it’s not an adverb. Is it a noun?”  
Yes.  
“We’re making progress! You know, James, if it was named Buster or something, that’s both a noun and a dog name—”  
“Please... stop.” James swirled the last contents of the coffee around in his mug, then knocked it back as if it were a shot of spirits. The anger from moments earlier was now replaced with worry and general nervousness. “I need to pay attention, now. The nature and spelling of the name determines what we’re dealing with. I’ll… I’ll ask the questions from now on.” He went on about the types of names certain things have, but Moore didn’t catch much of it. The world became soft, the colors muted, the textures smooth and fluffy. Like foam, like powder, like clouds, like— oh.  
“Hi there… Lyer.” Moore mumbled, giving a small, nervous wave.  
“You idiot. Buffoon. Moron. Fool! You… you… greasy taco salad! What did I tell you?!” Lyer was shaking with rage, his hands making violent gestures every which way. He could barely contain himself. But, after a moment, the anger was gone in an instant. Lyer’s voice had returned to its calmest; a low, soothing tone. “You know what? Fine. They’ll fear me if they know I’m what you made a deal with. They’ll submit to my power… if they know who demanded a blood ritual. They’ll join as a member of my ranks if they think it means they’ll walk out alive…”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“I’m talking about me. My name. Go on. Tell it to them. I’m sure they’ll still think you’ve got a chance of escaping this.”

Behold! James has an emotional breakdown  
The world came into brilliant focus; smells were more potent, sounds were heard with astonishing clarity. It was refreshed. Reinvigorated. Rejuvenated. I’m running out of words, help me out here. Invisible holds around Moore’s throat had vanished, leaving the burden of secret behind. He could say the name. Why had Lyer changed his mind about it? Did he really think he had that much of a reputation? But, no matter. More important things were at hand.  
“It’s Lyer. L-y-e-r is the spelling.” The words came out, without chains holding them back. It felt like a small measure of freedom, though Moore hadn’t noticed the feeling of being restrained until it was gone.  
James’ face went through a stunning range of emotions in a remarkably short time. First shock, then sadness, hysteria, worry, and finally settling into an anxious, fidgety way of conducting himself. “Are you— are you sure that’s the name? Can’t it be something more… tame? Like Tyme? Or— or even Fæyr? Yes, I’m even fine dealing with Fæyr, of all dangers it could possibly be!” At the end of the sentence, he was sounding a bit hysterical. This was a big deal to James.  
“What are those things?” Moore asked. “Why— why is Lyer so bad? What does he do?”  
“Moore, you’re going to want to sit down for this. Kyla, Alan, you as well. We’ll need the others informed, too, so get them in here. In—including Martin.”

M’kay, Kids, Ready For Some Exposition?!  
“We’re not so sure of how our world works. I mean, we know science, and I, personally, specialize in theoretical and metaphysical magic. We all don’t need a science lesson from me, but I’ll tell you a bit of how we know other worlds work, because that’s important. There are four main worlds we know of, and we’re not sure whether there's more than four. But, anyway, let’s continue.” James paused before continuing his speech.  
“Our world is the second. The first, we don’t know much about. We call that one the world of Unknowns. The first world connects to ours, and ours connects to the third and fourth as well. The third world is called the world of Elements, where it’s almost like ours. Balance is everything there. It’s where many alchemical ingredients are found, and elemental magic is most powerful. Of course, it’s mild. Nothing breaking the laws of physics, what were you thinking, Zak?  
“The fourth world is where many monsters or existential beings are from, all rooted in fear. Each fear in our world and the world of Elements is symbolised in the world of Spirits, but those reside deep in the dwellings of the three Lords. Oh, and one is a Lady. But that doesn’t matter, we’re not really talking about positions of power and more… deities. Everything from the world of Spirits acts like it’s from a myth, I find. Or the imagination of someone. What kind of sick person came up with Lyer, then? Who knows. Other spirits exist in that world, but they are all mostly malevolent and just hoping for a soul to devour. That’s generally not a good thing, my friends.”  
Another nervous laugh.  
“Lyer is one of the three Lords from the world of Spirits. I don’t know how, or why, but— uh— he’s bound to you, Moore. The other Lords include Tyme, which is basically the Reaper. The constant ticking of a clock towards your demise. The embodiment of death itself. I haven’t met her, but I don’t think she’s too happy with me. The other one is Fæyr, which is feelings of fear, horror, terror, and also the creeps you get from the uncanny valley.  
“Lyer is the ruler over a range of things. He’s a Spirit of Madness, Deceit, and the frightening idea that your perception of reality may be different than what’s actually happening. He works in illusions, hallucinations and such, weaving nightmarish visions to disperse across our world. To do this, however, he needs a mortal soul to affect our world, the world of Crossroads. It’s called that because all four worlds can connect here. Well— I think. Basically, he needs a vessel. Sometimes willing. Sometimes not. But someone’s got to have a real… interesting reason to affiliate themselves with Lyer.  
“And, Moore, he seems to have stuck with you from your… past. I don’t know your intentions from then, but could you really be honest: how on earth did you get yourself into making a deal with the Lord of Illusion!?”

I Learn My Name.  
“I… I don’t know. So, there was a time before this that you knew me? Was— was I like this? Did you know my name? My first name?” Moore was hoping for an answer, eager to find out. He could have his identity. His first name. Names are… everything! It’s who we are! Right?  
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It’d be too risky,” replied James.  
“What do you mean, too risky? What—what harm is there in a name?”  
“A lot, actually,” Samantha interjected. “Should I explain?” She asked the group, which Moore had almost forgotten was there. They nodded assent, Kyla bobbing her head extremely rigorously. Odd.  
“Okay. How do I phrase this… without being offensive… Moore, you were a jerk.” (Post-script: Samantha actually used a much different word, but I’d rather not put it in here. You can use your imagination, my friends.)  
“Woah, okay, that’s enough. I can tell, already, that this is not going to go well.”  
“I’m just providing a blunt and honest opinion, Alan. I worked with him for a while! I should know, although I wasn’t aware of the Lyer situation… anyways, if you want me to shut up, you’ll have to make me. So…” she said, pulling a knife from her belt, “make me. Go ahead and try.”  
“I wasn’t suggesting violence, nor was I inciting it. I find it concerning that you threaten me so... easily. I’d rather you put the knife away.”  
“Sure, mate. Just let me talk. Anyways, Moore, to make a long story short… I worked with you for awhile, about a year back. Don’t ask how I was up and about a year ago, seriously. Anyways... I provided a bit of funds and checked up every once in a while, but I was busy. I’m rambling already, which I just realized… anyways, you did some very… morally questionable things with illusions.”  
“Morally questionable? Samantha, he tortured Alan with them until we could get him out of there! You call that morally questionable!?” Zak yelled.  
“I did what?! No, no, I wouldn’t. That’s just not me. Right? Right? Right? I don’t know. I don’t know, and it’s driving me mad to know, you all could just be joking and I wouldn’t know, I really wouldn’t—” Moore’s words came quickly, almost as fast as the racing thoughts went. They couldn’t keep up, however, so the words were replaced with unintelligible murmurs even I can’t decipher with someone’s help. She says I— yeah. Moore wasn’t having a fun time then… I can certainly agree. Nonetheless, the arguments continued on.  
“Oh boy, here we go…” James raised a hand to his face, covering his eyes to avoid watching the chaos that followed. Martin sat back to watch the show, leaning backwards in his chair. Kyla attempted to make peace, but to no avail. Apparently reasoning that “it wasn’t Moore’s fault” isn’t the best argument.  
“I’d really want to know how on earth a good person can decide to make a deal with a thing like that.” Zak said, raising his voice, “I mean, it just doesn’t make sense. Bad people do bad things for bad reasons, and it’s always been that way. Moore’s just putting up a trick, another little mind game to try and convince him that he’s merely… as Samantha put it… morally questionable. Well, I’m not falling for it. And another thing: I have a question for you, James. Why can’t we say his real name again? His first name? Why not? Tell me.”  
“Well, it’d link to too much of his memory, it’d bring too many back.”  
“And, James, say why that’s so dangerous.”  
“Because we’d be back to square one.”  
“What would that mean, then?”  
“What’s your point, Zak?”  
“My point is,” he said, “I don’t get why we’re doing this. Can’t we all go home and be… normal? None of this is normal!”  
“But what about Lyer? We need to find a way to get rid of him, or at least not be as much of a danger.”  
“Do we, though? I don’t get why we can just leave and forget about the problem. What harm can Lyer do, anyway?”  
“You don’t get the full view of what’s happening here.”  
“I think I do, James. You guys don’t. I’m the only one who Moore hasn’t got wrapped around his finger. But you know what? I’m tired of having to tread so lightly around the information. Moore, listen close, because I’m going to say your name.”  
“Zak, stop—”  
“It’s Alistair. You’re welcome.”

And with that, Zak left the room.

Oh, Shoot, Here We Go Again—  
The name ricocheted around in my head, repeating endlessly on loop. I heard it said by all who knew me in life, in a range of different tones. A higher-pitched voice had said it clearly, full of admiration. It was the voice of a girl. I remember her. She was Gina, the young child of one of my older friends. Another voice, the one belonging to my grandfather, had said it in a chastising tone. I remember he’d gone off about not messing about with things you can’t control. I don’t think I listened. I remember another voice, so full of spite, had said it. It was clear, ringing almost like a bell, on the forefront of my memory. The voice was familiar… Zak. It was from Zak. He’d said it just then.  
Where was I, then? I still saw who called themselves my friends around me, but something wasn’t right. Sounds were muted, as if I were underwater. I had trouble focusing on my own surroundings. My vision was blurring, my legs were failing me, and thus... I was left with my thoughts, which were growing ever more rapid by the second. Was what Zak said true? I may never know. Maybe this was death. Oh, gosh, this might be death. I could most certainly be dead. James never got to say what Lyer does. Wait, he did. What did he say?  
Does he kill people? Was I dying? He certainly seemed capable of murder. Emotions and opinions changing on a dime. His two moods appeared to be… sadistic creep... and… maybe… dramatic, angsty teenager. I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know, half the stuff I think I know could just be lies, but… the fear is gone… if you know it’s a lie. If you wish to entertain yourself in things you know are not real. If you could take a moment to forget harsh truths, to return to life… refreshed, perhaps the world would be a better place. True ignorance may not be bliss, but it may be so if you choose to take but a moment from reality to live out fantasies. My thoughts slowed, calm after a storm, and I remembered.


End file.
